whoopin' the house down
by flowermasters
Summary: Perhaps Steve needs a little corporal punishment. AU.


A/N: What is it with me and femdom Steggy lately?

Warnings for: spanking, some language, some sexual content.

Title comes from 'Jealous Girl' by Lana del Rey.

* * *

"Honey," Steve says plaintively, his voice hardly a whisper to avoid being overheard by the cab driver. "Peggy, are you gonna ignore me all night?"

Peggy just looks at him, her eyebrows slightly raised, and he sighs. Before he gets the chance to say anything else, the cab comes to a halt and the driver barks out the fare. Steve goes for his wallet, and Peggy doesn't wait for him to pay before she gets out of the car. She does linger on the curb, and he joins her soon enough. She allows him to link their arms together, but she's the one who leads the way up to her apartment.

Once they're inside, she goes about unpinning her up-do and letting her hair fall free - hairpins have been digging into her scalp all night. Steve lingers awkwardly in the doorway to her tiny bedroom, biting his lower lip in a way that almost makes her relent in giving him the silent treatment. _Almost_.

"I already said I was sorry," he finally says, his tone rather wry, as she takes off her stockings. "Should I say it again?"

"Well, it won't hurt," she says, tossing aside her nylons with a bit more force than necessary.

"I'm sorry," he says without missing a beat, and he _is_ painfully sincere. But Peggy's always been a jealous girl - after all, nobody's perfect - and she can't shake the image of him sitting at the bar with that girl's hand resting on his thigh with all the audacity in the world. Peggy had gone to the powder room for two minutes and had returned to find Steve, red-faced and embarrassed, shying away from some girl just a second too late.

He's already explained himself plenty of times over - "I didn't know what to say, Peggy. You know you're the only girl I want, it's just - I didn't want to be rude and then she just grabbed me!" - but Peggy just can't shake her irritation. Some primal little part of her wants to remind him, repeatedly, that he's hers and nobody else's. The rest of her is well aware that she's being ridiculous, but she just can't_ stop_.

After a few more seconds of silence, Steve asks, "How long are you going to punish me?"

She purses her lips. "I'm not punishing you."

"You're giving me the cold shoulder," he says. "That's punishment, Peggy."

"It's _not_," she snaps, feeling childish and yet still unable to stop herself. However, the last time she'd been this angry with him, she'd fired a gun at him - several times - so she's doing better than is to be expected, all things considered. "Although if you're so bloody keen on being punished, shall I put you over my knee like a little boy?"

His reply draws her up short. "You can if you want to. So long as you stop ignoring me."

She just stares at him, and finally thinks, _oh, the hell with it_. She's ready to be done with this conversation. "Fine," she says coolly. "Come on, then."

It's his turn to gawk at her, and he stammers, "I mean - are you serious?"

"Absolutely," she says calmly, her resolve hardening. She walks over to her bed and sits down rather stiffly, her knees together. "In your skivvies, please."

He looks like he's going to question her further, but finally he just reaches for his belt buckle. Once he's down to his shorts, she pats her thighs calmly and he slowly approaches. "I can't believe this is actually happening," he mutters, a hint of amusement in his tone.

"Steve," Peggy prompts, no-nonsense. She can't believe it either, but pride is also one of her faults, and she's not going back now.

"Alright, alright," he says, kneeling awkwardly in front of her. With a bit of shifting, they manage to get him across her lap. It's time like this when she remembers exactly how _big_ he is - his weight against her legs would be unbearable if he wasn't supporting most of his own weight. "Am I hurting you?" he asks quickly.

"No," she says. "You're going to count your licks, by the way."

He tilts his head so that he can give her a curious look. "Exactly how many licks am I getting?"

"Until you say 'uncle'," she says, and he laughs. She bites back a smile of her own, and then says, "Eyes forward, soldier."

Steve looks down obediently, and she raises her hand slowly, almost with trepidation - but then she remembers that it's virtually impossible for her to _actually _hurt him with her bare hands, and she brings her hand down with a smack. He jerks slightly, perhaps in surprise, and says laughingly, "One."

She smacks him again, and he says a bit more seriously, "Two." The pattern continues until she gets to five licks, and then he wriggles a bit. The shifting of the muscles of his back is mesmerizing, and she finds herself absently stroking his skin even as she brings her other hand down for number six.

He shifts again, and she brings her palm down a bit more sharply. "Lie still," she commands.

Steve nods with surprising vigor. "Seven."

By the time she's at ten, she can see his cheeks turning pink. "Are you alright?" she inquires, pulling her hand away, suddenly afraid that perhaps the spell has broken and this is no longer fun or silly.

"Fine," he says, a bit tightly.

"Should I stop?" she asks. Her palm is tingling, but she doesn't mind. Not many can say they've slapped the arse of Captain America, after all, and it _is_ a remarkable arse.

"No," he says, to her immense surprise.

Nevertheless, she spanks him once more, and he quickly says, "Eleven." Trying to gauge whether he's really uncomfortable or not, she doesn't pause at all between hits this time, and this time he jerks and says, a bit hoarsely, "_Twelve_."

"Steve?" she says worriedly, and he doesn't answer, just presses his hips against her almost unconsciously, and that's when she feels him, half-hard in his shorts. That's certainly an unexpected development.

He tilts his head and looks up at her, his cheeks nearly scarlet and his expression embarrassed. "I'm sorry," he blurts, "I don't -,"

"Oh, love," she says, cupping his cheek gently. "It's alright." And it is, it really is - it's surprising, but it's alright. More than alright, actually - it banishes the remnants of Peggy's anger. He really _is_ hers, and this proves it.

He lowers his gaze then but he doesn't move away. "I didn't know that I - that I would like this," he says, still so sweetly shy and embarrassed.

She runs her hand absently over his arse, and he hisses a bit - probably from the sting of where she's been smacking him. She knows she physically can't leave a bruise, but there's probably a pretty red hand print on him right now. The idea of it - leaving a mark on him, even a temporary one - intrigues her. She gives him a moment to collect himself, and then she brings her hand down again. This time he lets out a shaky huff of air, his eyelids fluttering slightly, before he says curiously, "Peggy?"

"Keep counting, darling," she says primly, with a rather wicked smirk.


End file.
